Keeper of the Moon (The Keepers: L.A.)

by Harley Jane Kozak

  “And I find it dangerous and barbaric. Could you talk to them?”

  “No. An Elven Circle would no more listen to me than I to them.”

  Sailor stopped walking. “Then I won’t waste any more of your time. I’m going back.” She paused, then said, “Highsmith doesn’t know the man who sold him the vials?”

  “No. He says the antiquities dealer, Stepanovich, approached him on behalf of the seller.”

  “Then Stepanovich met the seller, who could also be the killer.”

  “He spoke to him on the phone. The safe was delivered by a courier, who turns out to be none other than Joshua’s miscreant cousin.”

  Sailor stopped. “But surely he can identify the man who hired him?”

  “Almost certainly. Unfortunately, he has disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? Or died?”

  “For our purposes, there is really no difference. The trail stops with him.” He took her arm, walking her back toward the restaurant. “You’re doing well, my dear. Better than I expected. Swimming well for being thrown into the deep end.” He smiled down at her. “I’d waste no more energy on this proposed hostage-taking. The Elven will pick hostages who are easily overcome, nobodies with little spirit or vitality, unlikely to be missed. Not worthy of your attention.”

  A seagull flew overhead, calling to its mate.

  “You have no soul at all, do you?” she asked.

  Darius sighed. “Dear child, must you always point out the obvious?”

  * * *

  Six minutes later Sailor pulled into Declan’s driveway. She’d found the house easily, because the Lamborghini Aventador was parked on the street in front of it. Mindful of Declan’s instructions, she pulled into the driveway next to a Jaguar. As she locked Alessande’s car she considered how crazy it was to be here, two hours before sunset, with moonrise occurring twenty minutes after that. However, she had to recharge her phone and, for that matter, use the bathroom, two prosaic needs without which she couldn’t save the world. And she’d promised Declan.

  But it all felt wrong with the sounds of the ocean so close and harsh.

  Declan’s assistant, Harriet, introduced herself and welcomed her with warmth and smiles, although Sailor guessed she was more used to keeping people out of Declan’s life than letting them in.

  “Mr. Wainwright instructed me to arm the security system and wait with you,” Harriet said. “He has concerns about your safety. Did you park in the driveway?”

  “Yes,” Sailor said.

  “Good. I’m closing the gate so no one can get to your car. I’m arming all the doors, as well, except for the front, which we’ll lock but leave unarmed for Mr. Wainwright. Don’t even go onto the deck or the alarm will sound, and it’s extremely unpleasant.”

  “I won’t be going onto the deck. Do you have a phone charger I can borrow? I have the same phone as Declan.”

  “Right over here,” Harriet said, leading Sailor to a kitchen, immaculate and beautiful, with gray stone counters and white cabinets. “Mr. Wainwright will be home eighteen minutes from now. He was specific about that, so you can set your watch by it. Would you like something to drink or eat?”

  “No, I’m fine. But a bathroom?”

  “The guest bath is being remodeled, but the master bath is one flight up. And I’ll be one flight down in the office.”

  Sailor plugged in her phone first, looking from the kitchen into the living and dining areas, which formed one great room. The house intrigued her, and under other circumstances she would revel in exploring it on her own, enjoying a glimpse into her lover’s world. It was modern and serene, and it drew her in and made her want to stay. The art on the walls enchanted her, although she couldn’t say what style or period the paintings were. The Lamborghini key on the kitchen counter near the phone charger was the only thing she recognized, yet everything looked somehow familiar to her. She had the strangest feeling that she belonged here.

  Except for the view. Sliding glass doors ran the length of the house, displaying the ocean. Maybe if the curtains were closed she could stand it.

  She helped herself to a glass of water, and noted the landline next to the cell charger, along with a stack of Post-its and a silver pen. On the top Post-it were her own name and number in a handwritten scrawl. Declan’s, no doubt. She noticed that he crossed his sevens in the European manner. Funny that she knew him intimately, yet knew so little else about him. What a strange three days it had been, how very— Another Post-it, this one stuck to the countertop, caught her attention, this one in a different and very neat handwriting, perhaps Harriet’s. She stared at it, feeling her heart thump in her chest. Call Vernon Winter.

  Vernon Winter, the man she’d met the night of the attack. Except she hadn’t met him, she’d met a shifter posing as him.

  Could that shifter actually have been a shifter Keeper?

  Had Declan been Vernon Winter?

  It was possible. There were disparities in the degree to which a Keeper shared the traits of the species. Some Keepers had many of the talents—and liabilities—of the creatures they protected, others were little more than mortal, with pale birthmarks and very mild abilities. Declan was obviously in the former camp if he could fly.

  But why would he misrepresent himself, and why keep it secret later? Why listen to her account of her attack as if it were news? It was as unsettling as a flat-out lie. And Alessande, too, had been part of the deception. Don’t jump to conclusions, she told herself. He must have had a reason. She would let him explain.

  Her phone came to life at that moment, alerting her to five urgent messages. She picked it up, putting aside her train of thought.

  Both Barrie and Rhiannon had called to update her on their Council meetings and confirm what Declan had told her. Reggie had called three times. Forgetting all about her need for the bathroom, she dialed him immediately, pacing the room as far as the charger cable would allow while she waited for him to pick up. His phone went to voice mail, so she left a message asking him to call her, then hung up. She hurried upstairs to the master suite, another marvel of interior design that she couldn’t take the time to admire. She used the bathroom, glanced at the shower and hot tub—which brought to mind scenarios of the things she and Declan might do in them that were only peripherally concerned with getting clean—and took a look at herself in the mirror, noting that her eyes were nearly their own shade of green once again. She was hurrying back through the bedroom, wondering if she would ever lie with Declan in that vast king-size bed under that gray linen duvet, when something in the sitting area caught her eye.

  It lay on a side table, a small leather bracelet studded with jewels.

  Feeling a little ping of jealousy, she picked it up. On closer inspection, it wasn’t a bracelet at all but a tiny pet collar.

  But Declan had no pets.

  And she’d seen it before, she was certain. Where, though? The only cat of her close acquaintance was Sophie, who belonged to Barrie. Sophie wore a rhinestone collar worth $7.99. This was in another class altogether. For one thing, it was Gucci; for another, it had charms on it, green gems, quite beautiful. Sailor wouldn’t know a real emerald from a piece of glass, but she knew what Gucci meant: money to burn. But why was this significant? She read the tag. Tamarind.

  She recoiled.

  It wasn’t a name you would forget. Tamarind was Charlotte Messenger’s cat, a gray tabby she famously took everywhere with her. Charlotte had named her pet after a tree, a bit of trivia that Sailor had noted because it was a nod to her Otherness. The Elven were crazy about trees. Trees were their passion, their totem, the birthmarks of their Keepers. And Charlotte was equally passionate about her cat. News accounts of her death invariably mentioned Tamarind’s disappearance.

  And here was her collar.

  Shaking, Sailor went downstairs to her plugged-in phone and got online, typing in “Charlotte Messenger” and hitting “images.” There it was, the photo she’d remembered, taken the day before Charlotte d
ied. She’d been photographed coming out of a Rodeo Drive boutique with Tamarind’s head peeking out of a handbag, the jeweled collar clearly visible around her furry neck. The same collar Sailor now held in her hand.

  Her phone rang, so startling her that she dropped the collar. She answered, praying that it wasn’t Declan.

  It was Reggie. “Sailor,” he said. “Joshua LeRonde? He’s not the killer.”

  “I know.” Reggie had to be upset, she thought, to be speaking so openly on a cell.

  “But I found something significant. I think. It’s— I think I found the crime scene.”

  “The what?”

  “Charlotte Messenger. Remember? They found her body on the beach, but they never found the place she was killed.”

  “Oh, my God, Reggie. Where are you?”

  “Just off Kanan Dume. Are you still at Geoffrey’s?”

  “No, but I’m not far,” she said. “Point Dume. I’ll meet you.”

  “Okay. I’m a half mile inland from Pacific Coast Highway. There’s stuff here I think could be proof. Even if we don’t have the killer’s—”

  Her phone beeped, alerting her to a text. “Hold on, Reggie.” She pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at the screen. It was from Declan.

  On my way, the text read. Home in five.

  Panic shot through her. She couldn’t face him, couldn’t ask him about the collar, but neither could she pretend there was nothing wrong, that she wasn’t freaked out. She wasn’t that good an actress.

  She had to get out of his house.

  “I’m coming,” she told Reggie. “I’ll call you from the car and you can direct me.”

  “If you’re at Point Dume, you’re no more than five minutes away.”

  Five minutes. The time it would take for Declan to return. And her car, Alessande’s car, was behind a security gate that she didn’t know how to open.

  She grabbed the Lamborghini keys and ran out the front door.

  * * *

  Declan couldn’t say what it was exactly that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, but he knew exactly what time it was and where on Santa Barbara’s State Street he was when he realized that Sailor had shut him out.

  It wasn’t until she closed the mental window that he was aware how deeply he’d been connected to her psychically for the past two days and nights. Psychically, physically...and emotionally.

  For forty-eight hours the world had been far less cold.

  He knew, because Harriet had texted him that Sailor had made it to the beach house. But after that something had either deeply upset her or...rendered her unconscious? He didn’t know how to interpret this, the shutting down of the strong current between them.

  The thought of her being in danger so unnerved him that he had to take several moments to calm himself to effect the change. That had never happened to him. He knew he had strong feelings for her, but until now he hadn’t suspected their true depths. He texted her, in case she was conscious and frightened and needed to know he was coming. No reply.

  He moved to an alleyway where he would be blocked from view. And then he shifted.

  * * *

  The Aventador was a bitch. Sailor realized it within seconds, starting with the crazy doors that lifted up and out. Once inside, she had to deal with a paddle shift system she wasn’t used to, and then a blind spot the size of a horse combined with seven hundred times more power than a horse, which made getting out of a tight parking spot onto Pacific Coast Highway and into Friday night traffic hair-raising.

  Plus, she was stealing a car. If Declan was a murderer, the theft was justified; if he wasn’t, he could very likely become one, once he discovered her theft. But she’d had no choice. Getting Harriet to open the gate would have taken time and persuasion, and Declan would have returned before she could succeed. Even now there was a chance he had a bird’s-eye view of his own car fleeing his own house.

  She should call someone. Brodie? But there might not be enough evidence for a search warrant. A Gucci cat collar, the fact that Charlotte’s body had been found on the beach somewhere nearby—was it enough?

  Something about Charlotte’s body and the beach nudged her memory, saying pay attention to me, but so many thoughts needed attention that this one would have to take a number and get in line.

  Could Declan really be a killer? It wasn’t possible. It made her blood run cold, then hot thinking about it. It was unimaginable. On the other hand, Darius had attacked her, torn open her chest and injected a pathogen into her bloodstream. Her own godfather, a man she’d known since birth, had done this. And she’d known—really known—Declan only a few days.

  And nights.

  Leave your feelings out of it, she told herself. Think. First, Declan had access to Charlotte, Gina, Kelly and Ariel, not only because he owned a nightclub they’d all frequented but also because he could get onto any set in Hollywood. Except Knock My Socks Off, but that wouldn’t matter because he could have met Charlotte anywhere. He was a man who stayed on good terms with his lovers. Alessande was proof enough of that.

  Second, he had the resources to acquire a vial of the Scarlet Pathogen. He had property everywhere, and money.

  Third, he would have alibis. Anyone who could shift well enough to fly could make people believe he was drinking with them all night when in fact he could commit a quick murder and return to the bar by last call. She’d done it in college, party hopping through teleportation. Exhausting, but possible. The amazing thing was that Declan could fly at all. Barrie, for instance, was a very talented Keeper, but she couldn’t do birds well enough to become airborne. Declan must have an immense amount of shapeshifter in his DNA, which only added to the strikes against him.

  Fourth, he was undoubtedly the one who’d shifted into Vernon Winter, deceiving her both then and after.

  Add to that Charlotte being found near his beach house and Tamarind’s collar being in his house—not to mention the message not to trust the one who flies—and it was no wonder Darius’s words echoed in her ear. Would she ever learn?

  Trust less.

  Chapter 16

  Storm clouds were gathering overhead as Reggie met Sailor at the end of a dirt road—little more than a path really—off Kanan Dume. He was visibly upset, his friendly face lined with stress. It sent chills down her spine, imagining what he’d seen to make him look like that.

  “We’ll walk,” he said, when she’d climbed out of the Aventador. “The car won’t make it.”

  “Really?” she said. “I could drive on that.”

  “In your Jeep maybe. Not in this. And it’s starting to rain. If it turns to mud, you’re screwed. What are you doing with Wainwright’s Lamborghini anyway?” He took the keys from her to lock the car with the remote, prompting the reassuring beep.

  “Stealing it, I guess,” she said. “Where’s your car?”

  “Up on the hill. Let’s hurry.”

  The light was rapidly fading, and she could sense Reggie’s urgency matching her own as they made their way toward the scene. The land was thick with springtime foliage, obscuring the view to the highway, and there was a curiously secluded feeling to the lot. There were no houses within screaming distance, she thought. It was a bad image to conjure, Charlotte screaming, and she pushed it away. “How on earth did you find this place?”

  “There’s a property up there that I manage,” he said, gesturing to the hillside on their right. “A few weeks ago we were scouting a location for a TV show, and the director asked about this land down here. I didn’t know anything about it, so I looked it up and found out the property’s been on the market for years. And I noticed the shed.” He pointed again. “Then I started to see lights driving up Kanan at night, and I kept thinking, ‘I have to check that out.’”

  “What do you mean you ‘were scouting a location’?” Sailor said, feeling a small frisson of warning. “Do you work in the industry?”

  “One of my side businesses,” he said. “I have a company that
rents out properties for movie shoots. So today, just now, I thought, ‘Time to check it out.’ I couldn’t believe what I found.”

  In a voice she hardly recognized as her own, she asked, “What’s it called, your company?”

  Reggie glanced back at her, pointing to the words on his baseball cap. In small letters. “Location, Location, Location.”

  Sailor grew cold all over.

  The strangest thing was the spark of joy she felt at the knowledge that Declan wasn’t the killer, that Declan was the good guy.

  And then the terror overtook her.

  Facts dropped into place. Reggie had an entrée onto movie sets, any set for which he was providing the location. Including, no doubt, Technical Black, Knock My Socks Off, Six Corvettes.

  He turned, sensing her slow down. “You okay?”

  She looked away. If she made eye contact, he would see her thoughts. “Yes,” she said, and wondered if she should just make a run for it. Back to the Lamborghini.

  Except that Reggie had the car keys.

  Keep talking, she told herself. Don’t let him know you suspect anything. “I’m just— Reggie, I think Declan Wainwright is the killer.”

  “Wainwright? Are you serious? Why would you say that?”

  “Charlotte was found near his beach house, you know.”

  “All right, come on,” he said. “Maybe there’s something in here that will connect him to the murder.”

  She stared at his back. He was big, six-four or more and rangy. What was she doing here with him? What was he planning to do with her? And how could she let anyone know that this was the man the entire community of Others was seeking?

  She felt for her phone as Reggie glanced back. If she could make a call, keeping it in her pocket, even 9-1-1... But it was a touch screen. She couldn’t just hit buttons, she had to see the screen. Stupid smartphone.

  “Watch your step here,” he said, as the path dipped just before the entrance to what looked like a construction shed, some kind of one-room prefab structure.

  Don’t go inside, she thought.

  “Come on,” he said, reaching out to take her hand, but she put it behind her back, unable to control her reflexes.